


Little Broken Things

by ShadowSpires



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, reboot feels, so many reboot feels, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-06
Updated: 2012-08-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 13:31:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowSpires/pseuds/ShadowSpires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> "He</i> doesn't love me!" <i>Damian’s words rung in the air, irrevocable, like the echo of two fateful gunshots, or the wet thud of bodies against the ground.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Broken Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is not at all where this was supposed to go, but… I think I like it, at least a little. Beware of reboot feels, while simultaneously ignoring everything that has happened post-reboot.

Damian pulled out his costume in preparation for patrol. He noted absently, as he carried it towards that changing area that it felt a little different in his hands, a little stiff.

  
Perhaps it was a new one. He had grown a bit and the last uniform had been getting a little tight. Pennyworth was very efficient about noticing things like that, and had probably taken it upon himself to replace it. He would have to do additional warm ups before going out on patrol tonight to begin breaking this uniform in.

  
He closed himself into the changing area, habit directing his movements as his mind followed different paths. He was mentally going over tonight’s patrol route as he dressed. He was patrolling with his father again tonight, as once again Nightwing was out of the Gotham and back to that deplorable city he had claimed. Damian wasn’t sure what to think about that, how to act, how to react. It had been different, patrolling with Nightwing, with Grayson, again, after so long. It had raised old habits, old patterns. Ever since the older hero had once again relinquished the cowl to Damian’s father the other man rarely patrolled in Gotham. That was not to say that he did not come to the city. Damian’s days had initially been peppered with surprise visits and attempts to drag him off to do things in the city. Those efforts had been continually rebuffed. Damian had been firmly of the opinion that if Grayson had truly wanted to spend time with him, he would have stayed in Gotham where he belonged.

  
Slowly they had tapered off. Grayson would still come by the manor, but those events were rarer and shorter. Damian had ignored how sad Grayson had always looked when he failed to corner Damian. The man was a ridiculous fool, who wore his emotion on his sleeve for the world to take advantage of. Damian would not encourage such behaviour by rewarding it. And so Grayson’s daily visits became weekly, then monthly, and time slipped by until they saw Bludhaven’s hero only seldom, when a particularly large case brought the man to Gotham, or on the major holidays he insisted they all celebrate together.

  
So his arrival the night before in Gotham had been something of a surprise. There had been no hint of large cases and it was still months from the next major holiday. He simply showed up without a word, and Damian’s Father had taken one look at him and sent them out to patrol together; one of the only times Robin had patrolled without Batman, at least officially, since Bruce came back.

  
They had slipped almost immediately back into a comfortable rapport, and Damian hated it even as he sank into it. He was no longer a child, to be swayed by meaningless gestures of affection (and he would not think about the fact that those gestures were not offered, would not admit to leaning into hair ruffles that did not come, to biting back rejoinder to teasing comments that were not voiced) and he did not appreciate being shuffled off to Grayson as if he was a tool or a toy. He had quickly given Grayson the slip and patrolled on his own, revelling in the freedom of it, but expecting any minute to hear his com crackle to life with either Grayson or his Father on the other end, demanding that he rejoin Nightwing. When it never came he experienced a moment of…concern that Nightwing, possibly unfamiliar with the city after so long, had gotten himself in trouble. Father would be most upset if he’d managed to get the older vigilante killed. _He_ would be most upset if his Batman had-

  
No, not his Batman, not anymore, a fact made blatantly clear when the other had abandoned him and his responsibilities to prance around in that ridiculous skin-tight suit.

  
He had gone looking for him; not wanting to call out over the coms. If Nightwing had managed to get captured he’d have the best chance of retrieving him if the man’s captors didn’t know he was coming. If he was dead then it wouldn’t matter. Either way it would delay the lecture from his father about patrolling alone.

  
He ignored the white knuckled grip he had on his grapple gun, or the pounding of his stupid heart. He was not concerned about Nightwing. The man was not his concern. He had abandoned him. He could take care of himself. He-

  
-was sitting on the ledge on top of Wayne Tower, looking out over the city, playing half-heartedly with a bowl of chocolate-peanut butter ice cream, a bowl of strawberry melting by his side.  
Damian’s traitorous mind drew up an image years gone; _Dick’s graceful form encased in the Batman uniform, his own smaller form tucked reluctantly into the larger vigilante’s side, poking dubiously at the pink concoction as Dick teased him and insisted that ice cream was a necessity on a night like this one!_

He ruthlessly suppressed that image, along with the memories of falling behind his father momentarily as his body reflexively slowed atop a certain roof whenever patrol took them past the only ice cream parlour open until midnight.

He stalked up behind Grayson on cat-quiet feet, but the older man set down his ice cream and turned to look at him before he made it within 10 feet.

“Hey Dami,” the other softly at him, looking tentative in ways his Batman never had.

“No real names in costume, Nightwing” Damian shot back, chest tightening incomprehensibly when the smile fell off Grayson’s face.

“Dami, please” Grayson continued, pleading and the anticipation of defeat in his every syllable and every line of his posture. “ I- I miss you. What did I do? What did I do to make you hate me?”

“You lied to me!” The answer exploded from Damian’s mouth before he could censor it, hold it back. His body reacted similarly, his foot lashing out and sending that offensive bowl of strawberry ice cream, that stirred so many memories, spinning off the edge to begin it’s fatal decent to splatter against the pavement below.  “You said we would always be Batman and Robin, and then you _left_!”

Damian’s fists were clenched tight, gauntlets creaking, his mouth twisted into a scowl. His eyes felt hot, but that was ridiculous and subjective, so he ignored it.

Grayson blinked at the falling ice cream before he twisted to face him fully, mouth open and stupidly slack.

“But Dami, I-”

“Save it, Grayson,” Damian snarled, turning away, the last few years of bitterness bubbling out of him, He couldn’t seem to stop, now that he had started. “I don’t want to listen to your excuses. You do not need to explain yourself to me. Obviously your protestation of ‘family’ and ‘brother’ were simply fabrications to ensure my cooperation. The fiction is no longer necessary, as we no longer are obligated to work together. You may return to Bludhaven and-”

Hands grabbed him and pulled him against an armoured chest. Damian’s automatic struggle was suppressed by strong arms and the bone-deep familiarity of the hold.

“Dami, _stop_!” Grayson’s voice sounded shredded, like someone was cutting into him with knives. Except he’d never sounded like that even when people had been cutting into him with knives, and Damian twisted to see that the ridiculous man had removed his mask-

“Grayson _what_ are you _doing_?!”

-and those blue eyes were anguished. Grayson’s whole face was twisted into some caricature of tragedy and disbelief.

“Dami you can’t believe that! You can’t!”

“And why not, Gra-”

“I didn’t leave _you_!”

“ _Yes you did!_ ” Damian shouted, twisting out of the older man’s grip to stand facing him, fists clenched by his side.

“I came to see you, I wanted to see you!” Grayson reached out towards him beseechingly, only for his hands to be knocked aside.

“As a civilian, Grayson! I will never _be_ a civilian!” Raised by assassins, trained his whole life, he could never be what Grayson had been trying to force him into, and he resented the constant reminder.

“As a brother, as a friend, you said I was your friend! I wanted that!” Damian’s chest clenched. This man had been his friend, his only friend, and he had told him so, and still the man had left!

“You abandoned me!” Run away back to the circus that had spawned him, back to the city that hated him.

“You pushed me away!” Again and again, not understanding why he kept coming around. He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he; he’d protected the city and ensured just enough of Damian’s cooperation through his deceit to make a easier. Truly is was a masterful stroke, worthy of Damian’s mother, if she could ever be bothered to show any warmth.

“You left me all alone!” Had lied to him, let him believe he was trusted, accepted, _worthy_ , and then taken it all away.

“Alone? Bruce was back, was going to train you, I thought that was what you wanted!” It _had_ been what he wanted, all he had been raised to want, taught to expect. All the had wanted before Grayson had shown him how it could be. Father didn’t listen to him, didn’t tease him or try to get him to make friends. Father didn’t leave his favourite tea out for him when he was working late, after Pennyworth had gone to bed. Father didn’t praise his sketches, or explain how sometimes getting images out of his head helped to relieve the pressure building up inside of him. Father didn’t include him in planning, didn’t trust him, didn’t try to drag him into things unrelated to the mission, or buy him ice cream or coerce him into eating it on rooftops with him. Father didn’t-

“He _doesn’t love me!”_

Damian’s words rung in the air, irrevocable, like the echo of two fateful gunshots, or the wet thud of bodies against the ground.

The heat in Damian’s eyes swelled and he swiped irritably at his mask as Grayson’s stunned silence continued.

“… You can’t believe that.” Grayson whispered, voice cracking, “You can’t”

And Damian couldn’t bring himself to fight the embrace he was dragged into, feeling worn out the way fighting and training never left him. His Father didn’t love him. Even his mother had loved what he had represented. But not his father.

“Oh Bruce,” Grayson murmured into his hair. “What have you done?”

Grayson manhandled him down onto the ground and into his lap. The position felt familiar, comfortable, comforting, even though he had never, would never, have allowed it before. Even though he was getting a little big for such a position to possibly be comfortable, perfect genetics and all.

He didn’t fight the way Dick enveloped him, curving his limbs around him and creating a warm cocoon, tucking his face against his neck. His Father didn’t love him. There was nothing he could do to make his Father love him, and -

“I love you Dami. I love you so much, and I don’t know how to make you believe it. I’m sorry I never said it before. I’m sorry Bruce isn’t capable of expressing it. We’re not very good at that, are we?”

\- and he had spent the last three years pushing away his best friend, the only person who had ever expressed that particular emotion towards him. No he’d never said it, but he had shown it in ways Damian hadn’t been able to recognise until they were no longer there. Ways he had distrusted when Dick had left. He should have remembered that while Dick could lie with his mouth his body always betrayed him. There had been no deceit in him when he reached out to ruffle Damian’s hair and then dodged, laughing, away from the retaliatory strike, or when he bounced around a confused Damian, hurrying him towards the Manor’s drawing room one December morning to pull open the door triumphantly and reveal a stack of presents that represented both Damian’s first Christmas, and the first presents he had ever gotten.

“Tt-” Damian grunted into Dick’s neck, letting his body relax into the embrace for once and trying to convey back to Dick, in the language the older man spoke best, that he understood.

Damian wasn’t sure how long they sat there, breathing together, before he felt Dick shift, and then something cold brush his cheek.

He looked up, to see the older man smiling tentatively at him, a spoon full of mostly melted ice cream in his hand.

“Open wide, Dami,” Dick cooed.

Damian snorted incredulously, lips stubbornly shut. He would _not_ encourage this ridiculous behaviour.

“Come on, Dami! Just like old times,” there was wistful sadness in Dick’s voice and Damian rolled his eyes before caving. He opened his mouth - and stole the spoon as soon as it came close enough, sticking it in his mouth and letting the alarmingly sweet concoction melt on his tongue as he shifted off of Dick’s lap.

Dick pouted, other arm tightening around Damian affectionately and preventing him from going too far as he retrieved the mostly melted chocolate peanut butter ice cream soup from the ledge. They sat leaning against the ledge, sharing an ice cream and enjoying the feeling of something long thought lost carefully, tentatively, sliding back into place.


End file.
